Have you waited too long to act on behalf of yourself? Are you putting up with behavior that others wouldn’t tolerate for two minutes? It took me until my 50s to begin to do so.

Do you feel off-balance, unsteady around some people? Do some people give you the impression that others just aren’t quite good or smart enough for them (superb tactics manipulators use to evoke simultaneous feelings of superiority and sympathy)? Continue reading “Manipulative People – Finding Your Way Out”

How did this happen? How did I end up sitting in front of this Communist official, completely dependent on him – or someone – helping me get back to Varadero?

It’s 1991, in a town several hours from Varadero. I’m sitting on a wood chair in front of a Poder Popular official. I watch him open his desk drawers one after another, riffle through papers and pull out all manner of miscellany. Except for the gas ration coupons I need. Continue reading “Helping out: Cuba’s Special Period – 1991”

Even though it’s December, 1991, and I’m in Varadero, Cuba, this won’t be a beach vacation.

I have two suitcases full of clothes, soap, shampoo, aspirin, toothbrushes, toothpaste and sundry other items. Two people in need stand next to me. Only problem: at this time, getting around the island unobtrusively is next to impossible for your average tourist. Continue reading “Helping out in Cuba’s “Special Period” – Part 2″

I stare at Che. The iconic poster hangs on the wall behind the official’s desk. It’s hot and stuffy in the office; air-conditioning hasn’t hit this part of Cuba. Was I insane, or just stupidly naive about my hare-brained scheme?

The Poder Popular fellow stops his search. He sits back and looks at me.

As the plane flew over the sub-tropical forests on our approach to Managua, Nicaragua seems to be a thousand shades of green with a sprinkling of blue lakes and smoky grey volcanoes thrown in for good measure.

“In case anyone asks, tell them you’re our cousins visiting from Canada,” Raul instructs us in Varadero as we drive off in a massive 1953 Oldsmobile, our transportation for the week.

I wonder how Claudia (a young Latin American friend who’s come with me on this trip), born of Bolivian parents and 8 shades darker than I am, and myself who, although pretty fluent in Spanish, am obviously not Latina, could be cousins to people who have never left Cuba and don’t have any relatives living in the U.S. or Canada. Continue reading “Dance on an Empty Highway – Cuba 1991”

The transport truck drops us off beside a path that cuts through a field at the foot of the mountains. We skirt around a hefty bull grazing near the woods, and in about 20 minutes we arrive at a small, wood-framed house, half hidden amongst the trees. Continue reading “Dance on an Empty Highway: Part 3”